


just as long as i'm with you (my happiness)

by trustingno1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-02-21 18:41:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2478530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingno1/pseuds/trustingno1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's very little he wouldn't sacrifice for John Watson's happiness (very little he <i>hasn't</i>), but he's found it, here, in 221B, with <i>Sherlock</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just as long as i'm with you (my happiness)

**Author's Note:**

> Drive-by mini-fill for the [prompt meme](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/22393.html?thread=132676217#t132676217), drawn heavily from canon scenes. Just - fluff.

"Morning," John mumbles, shuffling into the kitchen, and Sherlock hums in reply, without looking up from the microscope. John's hand is warm on his back, briefly, as he passes behind him. "Sleep at all last night?" he asks, opening the fridge.  
  
"A little," Sherlock allows. Not a lie. Just-  
  
"I'm not asking if you nodded off in your seat for a bit," John replies, placing a carton of eggs on the bench.  
  
"Then you should've been more specific," he murmurs, adjusting the focus, and he doesn't have to look up to know that John's smiling as he waits for the pan to heat up.  
  
John cracks a couple of eggs and pokes around in the pan for a bit. He hesitates, and Sherlock looks up, and John studies the omelette, dubiously. "Toast?" he finally offers, already reaching for the bread, and Sherlock smirks, as John shoves a couple of pieces into the toaster.  
  
"I see married life made no quantifiable improvement to your culinary skills," he mutters, glancing back down at his microscope before pausing.  
  
(Rude, he realizes. _Rude_ ).  
  
John just snorts. "Good thing you don't keep me around for my cooking," he says, lightly.  
  
"It's certainly not for your blogging," Sherlock replies, frowning, as he clips in a new slide, " _The Adventure of the Cardboard Box?_ " he asks. "I don't know how you managed to make severed ears sound so _boring_."  
  
"For the last time," John says, evenly, " _Lend Me Your Ears_ was _inappropriate_. They were _human ears_ , Sherlock."  
  
"I _know_ ," Sherlock breathes, and John's trying not to laugh, he can tell, as he makes room for a plate beside Sherlock.  
  
"Toast. Eat." It's a gruff order, but John presses a gentle kiss to his hair before he steps away.  
  
He reaches out, almost mindlessly, and takes a piece (lightly toasted and slathered in honey and on his left side, so he can keep working with his right hand and the fondness in his chest is almost a physical _ache_ ).  
  
He looks up at John, properly, for the first time that morning. Night out with Stamford and Lestrade; one drink more than usual; voice a little rougher - some sort of ... team sport celebration?  
  
"How was the game?" he mumbles, around a mouthful of toast, and John raises his eyebrows at him.  
  
"Yeah, good. We won, France and Ireland drew-"  
  
Of _course_ it was sports. Not a hard deduction, but -  
  
"... and you're not listening to a word of this, are you?" John sounds resigned, but amused, and Sherlock's gaze flicks over him, once, twice (shoulders relaxed, laugh lines around his eyes deeper and smile small but genuinely affectionate) and - one more deduction than he was expecting, and it knocks the _breath_ out of him and he can just _blink_ at John. "Sherlock?" he prompts, a little warily, smile slipping a bit and -  
  
"You're - _happy_ ," Sherlock says, perplexed.  
  
John pauses, shrugs. "Would've been better for us if Ireland had lost, but-"  
  
"No," Sherlock interrupts, forehead furrowing, and he'd missed this (how had he missed this? Sentiment, perhaps? Not wanting to hope?) "Here. You're happy _here_."  
  
John looks around the kitchen and shrugs again. "Wouldn't say no to a bit of a tidy-up, but-"  
  
"No," Sherlock says again, "You're happy with - me?" and it's there, it's all _there_ , it's all right in _front_ of him, but it doesn't make _sense_ , and John's face does something complicated.  
  
"Course," he says, softly, before clearing his throat, "Sherlock, of _course_ I am." And Sherlock stares back at him for a long moment; there's very little he wouldn't sacrifice for John Watson's happiness (very little he _hasn't_ ), but he's found it, here, in 221B, with _Sherlock_ and John knows, he _has_ to know, but-  
  
"Good," is all he manages to say.  
  
"Good," John agrees, and Sherlock glances back down into his microscope. Pauses. Looks back up at John, who's watching him, patient and _fond_ and-  
  
"That thing," Sherlock says, ineloquently, twirling a finger mid-air, staring down his microscope again, and they don't _do_ this, but he has to say it, has to know that _John_ knows, " That thing you said. Me, too."  
  


**end**


End file.
